The first few days had been difficult. Despite having spent so much time with trainers and their Pokémon, Silver had found adjusting to his own more challenging than he had expected. Perhaps it was because the Sneasel was still wild, not used to working as a team, or maybe it was his own fault; he was young, he gave bad commands and the Pokémon was smarter than that. It wasn't until he had shouted a vague, 'just kill it!' out of frustration that Sneasel was victorious against the Pidgey two days earlier. Petrel had seen the look on his face then, a look of joy, delight, one that reminded him the boy was Giovanni's son and that battling skills were sure to develop swiftly. He sat down next to Silver in the tall grass, and handed him a bottle of juice.

'Here,' he said as he lit a cigarette. 'You've had a tough morning.'

'Not really,' Silver shrugged. It was getting easier now that almost a week had gone by. He watched Sneasel flit around in the grass a short distance away as he drank the juice. 'It's December.'

'So?'

'So I'll be ten soon.'

'Have we ever forgotten?'

'My dad never remembers.'

'I wasn't talking about him.'

'No,' Silver pouted. 'But I don't want anything this year. No cake, no presents, no nothing.'

'You're still mad at Ariana.'

'I'm never talking to her again.'

'Silver,'

'Never.'

'Hey, I know most of what we've been teaching you is how to lie properly, but that was shocking. You don't stay mad forever, it just doesn't happen.'

'I'm really mad,' Silver said, quietly. He tossed the empty bottle aside. 'Like, angry. I hate her more than my dad for disappearing. And I get more angry when I see her or when she talks to me and it makes it worse. I don't like it. I never hated her before and now I do and I'm angry, all the time.'

'Welcome to life, kiddo. Everyone's angry at something. Look at Proton. Wait, he's a bad example.'

'Why? He seems angry. He's good at hurting – people, Pokémon – things.'

'He's not angry, he's bored.'

'He's bored so he kills people?'

'Not kills, really.'

'No he does. I know that.'

'Okay fine, he does sometimes. He's getting better at not killing them, but he's not angry, he's just broken.'

'How?'

'Look, his brain is too smart and he's a violent person. When he gets bored, which is most of the time, he forgets how to control that.'

'So he tried to kill me because he was bored? I didn't think he hated me.'

'It's not hate that makes him do things,' Petrel said; they were well off topic and he had no idea if he should be discussing these things with the boy. 'I don't know. All you have to know is that he's not a good example because his brain doesn't work the way most people's brains do.'

'Oh,' Silver accepted that and watched as Sneasel flew back to him, hovering in the air for a moment before landing back on the grass. 'What's that?' The Pokémon dropped a strange gold object to the ground, then made a cheerful purring noise. He reached out and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. 'I don't know what it is,' he said, forcing the object in Petrel's direction.

'Nugget. Worth a lot.'

'Give it back!'

'Where was I going?' Petrel tossed the nugget back to the ground beside Silver. 'Put it away, we can sell it tomorrow.'

'Why tomorrow?'

'We'll do a disguise.'

'Why?'

'Where'd you get the nugget?'

'Sneasel found it.'

'And where'd he get it?'

'I dunno, the ground?'

'Wrong. Unless you know where it came from, it's probably stolen. Where'd you get it?'

'Sneasel.'

'Where'd he get it?'

'What?'

'Get out of my shop,' Petrel said, grinning as he imitated the man from the Department Store. He flicked away the end of his cigarette. 'Try again. Where'd you get it?'

'My uncle gave it to me for my birthday three years ago.'

'Better. Why're you selling it?'

'My dad doesn't have a job anymore and we need the money.'

'Great, better again. Fuck me if I know I'll hide your hair though.'

'Why?'

'How many other nine year old boys do you know in this city with hair like yours?'

'I don't know any other nine year old boys.'

'See?'

'No.'

'You stand out. We're doing disguises to sell that thing.'

'Okay, okay. You promised you'd show me how to pick locks next.'

'I said when you got your Sneasel to level 20.'

'He's 16 already!'

'Level 20, then locks.'

'Fine,' Silver scowled as he got to his feet. Sneasel flew up into the air above his head and sped forward, back out into the open grass of Route 35. 'Come on, you've got Ice Punch, I want to see you use it! Practice your speed, okay?' Petrel watched as the boy gave his commands and how the Pokémon listened to everything, every word, after less than a week of training together.

###

When Archer heard his name, it sounded distant, garbled. He was lightheaded and when he tried to scratch the itch on his knee, he found that his hands wouldn't – couldn't – move. He flexed his wrists and found them bound with electrical tape, tied firmly behind his back. It took far longer than it should have for him to realise that he was, in effect, tied to one of the kitchen chairs. He heard his name again then, closer this time, right by his ear. He laughed. There were two people who could have been responsible for this, but the throbbing in his head and a vague recollection of a surprisingly kind gesture cleared up the situation for him.

'What was in the beer?' he asked, his words slurring.

'Secret,' Proton said. He was leaning forward with his elbows on Archer's shoulders, flicking a switchblade open and closed, over and over, in his left hand.

'What's your problem now, Executive?'

'Well, Boss, which one? Be specific.'

'Why was I drugged then taped to this chair?'

'That's a good story,' Proton moved then, so he was leaning back against the edge of the counter. He swapped the switchblade for one of his throwing knives and tossed it at the dartboard across the room. 'Fuck!'

'What's wrong with a double twenty?'

'It's not a triple.'

'It's still a double.'

'Shut up! I can't concentrate!'

'Tell me the story,' Archer said, rolling his eyes. He had more important things to do than indulge Proton for the afternoon. There was paperwork to forge, to sign, buildings to acquire. He and Ariana had their eyes on an old shop in Mahogany that would be perfect for distributing the Slowpoketails; it had an expansive underground warehouse attached.

'The short version is that you were getting on my nerves last night.'

'Go on.'

'Long version, fuck you,' Proton spat, sending another knife flying towards the board. Another double. 'Fuck! What the fuck are you playing at?'

'I don't know what you mean,' Archer said calmly.

'With the boy! He'll get in the way!'

'If you recall, Giovanni left me in charge. I decided he was ready to begin training as one of us. In the event that something has happened, he will have a large role to play in the future of this organisation.'

'He's a child!' Proton threw his third and final knife at the board; he missed, the blade embedding itself into the plaster. 'Fuck! You're an idiot, the last thing we need is him getting in the way!' Archer had expected a blow of some kind to follow Proton's outburst. A slap, a punch, a slash; any of these he would have expected. He wasn't prepared for the next move. He had no way of predicting it, let alone preventing it. The kitchen chair came down, hard, striking him in the back of the head. He heard himself shout out in pain, saw the blood drip from his hanging head. His head spun and his vision blurred – he was certain he had passed out for a moment or two. The pain was unbelievable. He could still hear screams and it took minutes for him to work out they couldn't be his. Proton. They were Proton's screams.

'What?' Archer managed to get the word out in between jagged breaths.

'My fucking fingers!' Proton spat, sitting down in the chair beside him.

'They're broken.'

'No fucking shit!'

'You fucked them up, didn't you?' A cough; blood.

'That bitch fucked them up!'

'Too much backlash from the chair,' Archer coughed again, more blood dribbling from his lips. 'Where is she?'

'Fucking asleep. Gave her a stronger dose,' Proton was searching through the freezer by then, looking for the ice.

'Why?'

'Because you have no fucking idea what goes on in my fucking head every fucking day!' He sat up on the edge of the table, using Archer's knees as a footrest. 'Don't bleed on me.'

'I'll try to stop.'

'Good,' he said. The bandages were loosened and removed so he could apply the ice, but not without a wince of pain. Slowly, he tried to flex his fingers but the joints were stiff and still very much broken.

'Why did you join?'

'What?'

'Team Rocket. Why?'

'Legitimised violence. Payrise. Like-minded individu – shit.'

'What?'

'Fucking fingers. Bitch needs to wake up soon so she can set them again.'

'She will.'

'Hope so. Lied before, gave her too much.'

'Fuck, if she doesn't, you're explaining it to the boy,' Archer said. He could feel the blood starting to clot, staining his clothes, the floor.

'He won't care. She's lost him.'

'He always comes around.'

'It's in his fucking eyes, Archer,' Proton snapped. He shifted the ice. 'You've been too fucking busy for weeks to see it. He looks at her the way you look at Grunts. Any respect he had? Gone. She fucked up, he found out. She's already dead to him, and it's killing her.'

'We'll see,' Archer said. Despite the pain in his head, neck, spine, he knew Proton was right. Silver was the product of two damaged parents and an erratic childhood. Cared for by criminals, liars, and sociopaths, he was never going to amount to anything of benefit to society. Fuelled by spite and hatred, his teenage years were off to the worst of beginnings.

'Keep him busy.'

'What?' Archer tried, slowly, to lift his head for the first time since the chair had struck him.

'Keep him busy. It worked on me for a year before I worked it out. He's younger and stupider, it'll take him longer,' Proton said. He tried to re-bandage his fingers but they were too loose, and uncomfortable. He moved a foot then, toes under Archer's chin to hold his head up. 'If you don't keep him busy, his head will be twice as fucked up as mine within the year.'